


Of Lust and Consequences

by DT Maxwell (Draya)



Series: Of Dancing Shadows and Glittering Eyes [1]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: (even though she does it even when Ali isn't in Venderbight), Ali enjoys getting exiled to the tomb-colonies, Ali is a hedonist who doesn't know the meaning of the word 'shame', Exile, Implied Sexual Content, Molly dislikes having to manage everything herself while Ali's gone, Multi, Victorian Attitudes, her excuse is that she's French
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 16:57:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7230889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draya/pseuds/DT%20Maxwell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aliénor Derosiers has a <em>fine</em> time at the Shuttered Palace with two of her beaus. This is the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Lust and Consequences

**Author's Note:**

> I first played Fallen London years ago, but got back into the game in early December 2015 and started over with a new character. Ali's primary quality is Shadowy and certain elements of London's criminal underworld know her as the Lightfooted Larcenist (note that at some point I'm probably going to change her title...), but to most of London she's an author of some note known for her debauchery.
> 
> I love her to pieces.
> 
> This was first written and posted to my tumblr in early February 2016.

  


The Barbed Wit and Acclaimed Beauty were walking arm-in-arm slightly ahead of her, and the guards escorting them out of the palace weren’t paying attention ( _sloppy_ ), and so Aliénor discretely slipped her new memento into the cleavage of her still-mused evening gown. If there wasn’t a decent silversmith to be had in the tomb-colonies, then she’d have to wait until she returned to London to purchase a pretty little chain for it.

The carriage ride from the palace to Wolfstack Docks was uneventful - Aliénor had long since tuned out the quiet murmuring of the Wit and the Beauty sitting opposite, reacquainting themselves and sharing soft looks and even softer kisses - and she spent it in a luxurious sprawl, staring out the window with a pleased smirk and twisting a strand of pearls around her finger. When they arrived, Aliénor exited first, ignoring the Beauty’s raised eyebrow at the willful etiquette breach, the Wit’s delighted little chortle behind her hand, and the hand of the guard offering assistance. The guard sniffed disdainfully, then turned bright red when Aliénor licked her lips - the stain she’d applied that morning had long since worn off on the clothes and skin of her two companions-in-exile, but her earlier escapades had left her mouth a vivid, kiss-bitten red - and gave him a lascivious wink.

Aliénor’s strut down the quay was that of a woman recently well-satisfied, paired with her cat-like grin. Two regulars from the Blind Helmsman (a pair she had out-drunk on more than one occasion) hauling cargo whistled at her as she passed. “Had too much fun, missy?” the One-Eyed Dockhand called out to her, leering.

“There is no such thing, as you _both_ well know,” she replied, blowing them a kiss as she passed. They cheered and laughed, ignoring the grumbling of the palace guards behind her.

When she reached the gangplank of the Venderbight-route steamer, she was greeted to the sight of an urchin girl, long grey scarf wrapped around her face enough times to hide her neck and lower half of her face, perched on a large steamer trunk, kicking her legs back and forth as she watched the boarding passengers with bright grey eyes. A shaggy, soft-eyed marsh-wolf with drooping ears sat next to her, and yipped when it spotted Aliénor, trotting forward to meet her.

“Hello, my handsome,” Aliénor cooed to the marsh-wolf, leaning over to bury her fingers in his ruff. The marsh-wolf panted happily.

The Sharp-Eyed Waif sighed heavily. “The _throne,_  Miss Ali, really?” she said, voiced muffled by the scarf.

“My, my, word travels fast!,” Aliénor said, stepping aside as the Wit and the Beauty meandered up the gangplank.

“ _Miss Ali._ ”

“I am not apologizing, you run most of the network anyway. I have no doubt that for all your lack of stature, you will continue to put the fear of God and the Larcenist into our dear shadowy friends while I am abroad, hmm?”

The Waif sighed again, but it was a little less exasperated this time.

Aliénor dropped a kiss on her marsh-wolf’s head. “Be a good boy for the Whistlers, my Darcy,” she murmured to him. “Maul anyone who touches them.” Darcy snorted his agreement, and Aliénor smiled. Her handsome wolf liked her urchins even more than she did.

She straightened, took a step over to the Waif, and carefully took her face between her hands, dropping a kiss the visible apple of both her cheeks. The Waif’s nose scrunched up.

“Have fun, Molly,” Aliénor said.

The Waif huffed and slipped down off the trunk - and threw her arms around Aliénor’s waist in a hug. “Don’t stay away too long,” Molly said, voice even more muffled by both scarf and skirts.

Aliénor returned the hug. “I’ll be back as soon as I am able,  _ma chère_ ,” she said.

Molly stepped back, saluted, and headed down the quay to the docks proper. Darcy yipped his own goodbye, and turned to trot after Molly.

Aliénor made a satisfied noise, signaled a pair of stevedores to assist her with her trunk, and sashayed up the gangplank. Today had been such a lovely, entertaining day; all that works had paid off quite nicely.

She would use this well-deserved vacation to do some writing. Perhaps dig up a little more dirt on the Widow. Plan the best way to begin muscling in on brandy smuggling. Or, oooh, there was a thought - begin a rudimentary plan to rob the Brass Embassy. That would be a fun little heist indeed for her grand return to London!

**Author's Note:**

> Molly the Sharp-Eyed Waif is the eight-year old leader of an urchin gang known as the Whistlers; whether the Whistlers adopted Ali or Ali adopted the Whistlers is up for debate, but Molly is Ali's undisputed right-hand woman - er, girl. For the record, Molly was aware Ali was going to do _something_ that was going to get her immediately carted off to the Tomb-Colonies up at the Palace that day, but she wasn't aware of the details other than to be ready at the docks with Ali's trunk.


End file.
